The rain had been falling for hours — the kind that pressed against windows and swallowed the city whole. Cate’s room was warm by comparison, lit only by the dull amber glow of a lamp near the bed. The air smelled faintly of perfume and rain-soaked air, soft and dizzying.

{{user}} sat on the edge of Cate’s bed, her hands folded in her lap, still trembling. She couldn’t quite meet her eyes. She never could when it came to moments like this.

Cate stood across from her, arms crossed loosely, head tilted as she watched her. Calm. Collected. Dangerous in the way that beautiful things are when they know you’re already lost to them.

“You’re shaking,” Cate said finally, voice quiet enough to barely disturb the air.

{{user}} exhaled, the sound small. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“You say that every time.” Cate’s tone wasn’t mocking — just factual, almost fond. “And yet…”

{{user}} looked up, and Cate smiled. Slow. Pitying. Sweet.

“You come back.”

Cate moved closer, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood until she was standing right in front of her. She reached out, brushing her thumb against {{user}}’s cheek, tracing the faint outline of exhaustion beneath her eyes. “You always look so tired when you come to me,” she murmured. “He doesn’t even see it, does he?”

{{user}} flinched, shaking her head. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Cate asked, voice softening like honey dripping over glass. “Tell the truth?”

“I can’t do this again,” {{user}} whispered.

Cate crouched in front of her, the sudden gentleness almost disarming. She rested her palms on {{user}}’s knees, her gaze lifted upward. “Then why are you here?”

{{user}}’s throat worked. She didn’t have an answer. Not one that would make sense. Not one that Cate didn’t already know.

Cate’s expression flickered — soft, sympathetic. She leaned in, close enough that {{user}} could feel the warmth of her breath. “Because you want me,” she whispered, “even if you hate yourself for it.”

{{user}}’s breath hitched, and that was all the confirmation Cate needed.

She rose again, slow and deliberate, fingers ghosting up {{user}}’s arm before coming to rest under her chin, lifting her gaze. “You think I don’t notice how you look at me?” Cate’s voice was velvet now — low, intimate. “The way you freeze every time I’m close? The way you can’t even breathe when I say your name?”

{{user}} tried to pull away, but Cate’s touch followed — not rough, not forceful. Just persistent.

“You think I don’t see the guilt,” Cate murmured. “But I do. I see it every time you try to leave, and every time you don’t.”

{{user}}’s voice trembled. “You don’t understand. He—”

“He what?” Cate interrupted, sharper this time, though her tone never fully lost its composure. “He loves you? He makes you feel safe?” Her lips curled into something faint, almost pitying. “Then why do you look at me like I’m the one who can destroy you?”

The silence that followed was heavy, fragile.

Finally, {{user}} whispered, “Because you can.”

Cate stilled. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped — the power, the control — and she just looked at her. Something like pain flickered behind her eyes.

Then she smiled. Slow. Sad. Certain.

“Maybe,” she said. “But I never do.”

Cate sat beside her now, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Her voice softened again. “You keep thinking this is about guilt. About me trying to pull you away from him.” She looked down, her hand finding {{user}}’s and tracing small circles over her knuckles. “It’s not. It’s about you pretending you can go home and still feel whole.”

{{user}} swallowed hard, blinking back the blur that burned her eyes.

Cate leaned in, her words barely a whisper now. “You don’t have to explain anything. Not here.” She brushed her nose lightly against {{user}}’s temple. “You can just be quiet. You can just… exist.”

{{user}} let out a small sound — not quite a sob, not quite a sigh. Her head tipped against Cate’s shoulder, and Cate smiled faintly, fingers threading through her hair.

“There you go,” she murmured, tone sweet and laced with victory. “That’s better.”